Page 2 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Two

R aven

The motel bathroom mirror doesn’t pull any punches under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Brutal honesty in forty watts of unflattering reality.

Dark circles shadow my eyes despite the heavy concealer trying to disguise them.

The black makeup that’s supposed to be my signature look just makes me look like a raccoon who hasn’t slept in days.

My hair needs touching up—the vibrant red roots are staging a rebellion against the black dye that’s been my signature look since college.

The cold water I splash on my face doesn’t wash away the memory of those impossible eyes.

Pale skin. White hair. Eyes like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

Lucius. Not just any gladiator, but a former priest of Pluto—the Roman god of the underworld.

A genuine death priest. Standing in a cemetery at midnight like some fever dream made flesh.

“Holy shit, Raven,” I mutter to my reflection. “Talk about hitting the paranormal lottery.”

The recorder sits on the bathroom counter. That little red light blinks like a heartbeat, patient and steady. I tap play. Please work. Please tell me I didn’t imagine the whole thing.

His voice emerges clear as midnight. “They weren’t screaming.”

The recording’s perfect. Crystal clear. Real. My skin prickles with goosebumps that have nothing to do with the motel’s aggressive air conditioning. The way he’d materialized from the shadows, silent as death itself. Those pale features catching the moonlight as if he was carved from marble.

For a split second, I’d thought I was face-to-face with an actual ghost. But it wasn’t fear that made my pulse race when he stepped closer.

It was something else entirely. Something that made my breath catch and my cheeks heat despite the cool night air.

He carries death’s mark just as clearly as I do. Perhaps even more so.

A wave of almost giddiness washes over me. I actually met and spoke with one of the thawed Roman gladiators!

The story made international headlines a few years ago—a sunken Roman ship called the Fortuna discovered off the Norwegian coast, carrying fourteen gladiators who’d been perfectly preserved in ice for two thousand years.

Scientists managed to revive them. The first to thaw was Varro, who now runs the Second Chance Sanctuary along with the archaeologist who discovered him, Laura Turner.

The world went crazy for a while, but then the novelty wore off, and the gladiators faded from daily headlines into the realm of occasional documentaries and academic papers.

But meeting one in person? That’s different. That’s like shaking hands with Julius Caesar or sharing coffee with Cleopatra. These men lived and breathed in ancient Rome, fought in actual arenas, and somehow survived impossible odds to wake up in our century.

Grabbing my laptop, I dive into research about albinism in ancient Rome. The results confirm my suspicions—people with his condition were considered touched by the gods.

Perfect irony, really. What ancient Romans saw as divine, modern medicine labels as a genetic abnormality. But after what I experienced on that cold metal table when my heart stopped beating, I’m not so quick to dismiss ancient wisdom.

My fingers trace the outline of the sugar skull tattooed on my right shoulder—my first ink after the accident.

The needle hurt less than the memories it was supposed to help me process.

My permanent reminder that I crossed over and came back changed.

The comments section on my latest podcast episode is swimming with the usual skeptics calling me a fraud.

Trauma victim. Attention seeker. Goth girl playing dress-up.

The greatest hits of internet cruelty. If they only knew.

The bedside clock reads 3:17 AM—the dead hour. Appropriate. Sleep isn’t coming tonight, not with my mind racing through the possibilities of interviewing an actual priest of Pluto. This could be the breakthrough episode that takes Beyond the Veil from cult following to mainstream success.

More importantly, it could finally validate what I’ve been saying all these years. Death isn’t the end. The boundary is thinner than most people realize.

My phone buzzes with a text. Megan, my producer and best friend since college.

Please tell me you didn’t actually trespass on private property to get material for the next episode.

I grimace. Megan knows me too well.

Define trespass, I text back.

Three dots appear immediately. Oh God, Raven. We talked about this. We can’t afford another cease and desist.

It’s fine. I met someone interesting. Potential interview that could change everything.

That’s what you said about the supposed witch in Salem who turned out to be selling essential oils from her basement.

I roll my eyes. This is different. Trust me.

Last time you said that, we ended up fleeing a haunted sanitarium with security guards chasing us. Just PLEASE tell me you didn’t break any laws getting whatever footage you got.

I stare at the screen, considering my response. Technically, I did break laws. The rusted sign on the old cemetery said it was open from dawn to dusk. But the footage I captured isn’t what matters now. It’s him. The albino gladiator-priest who materialized from the shadows like he belonged there.

No footage, I reply finally. But I made contact with one of those thawed gladiators everyone’s been talking about. The weird ones from that sanctuary compound outside the town I’m staying at.

The three dots appear and disappear several times before her response comes through.

Bullshit.

Not bullshit. He was an actual priest of Pluto before becoming a gladiator. Roman death cult, Meg. The real deal.

If you’re messing with me…

I swear on my collection of Victorian mourning jewelry. This is the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for.

I grab my journal—leather-bound, filled with notes from every investigation since I started the podcast. Flipping to a blank page, I sketch his face from memory—the sharp angles, the otherworldly eyes, the controlled power in his movements.

He doesn’t belong in this century with its fluorescent lights and digital noise. He belongs to shadows and stone temples, to ancient rituals and forgotten wisdom.

The question is: will he talk to me again? The card I left might as well have been tossed into the void. Men like him don’t call podcasters who trespass at midnight.

But I saw something in his eyes when I mentioned my near-death experience. Recognition. Maybe even understanding.

The motel walls feel suddenly confining.

Sliding out of the bed, I move to the window and push aside the faded curtains.

The small town of Potosi sleeps under a blanket of stars, its buildings casting shadows that hint at its mining history.

Somewhere beyond the town limits lies Second Chance, the mysterious sanctuary where time-lost gladiators are building a new life.

My grandmother’s pendant, containing a lock of her hair, feels heavy against my sternum. She’d been the only one who believed me after the accident. “Some people get glimpses behind the veil, Rose,” she’d said. “Doesn’t make you crazy. Makes you a bridge.”

A bridge. That’s what my podcast was supposed to be—connecting the living with the reality that death isn’t the end. Not just entertainment for the morbidly curious. Something meaningful.

But five years and 157 episodes later, I’m still chasing validation. Still trying to prove to myself and everyone else that what I experienced wasn’t just oxygen deprivation or trauma-induced hallucination.

Lucius could change that. A man who served death professionally, both in Pluto’s temple and in the arena. If anyone could confirm what I saw on the other side was real, it would be him.

My phone buzzes again. Megan.

If this pans out, it’s bigger than the podcast. We’re talking book deal, documentary series… But only if you don’t scare him off by being, well, YOU.

I snort. Megan knows exactly how intense I can get when I’m onto something legitimate.

What’s that supposed to mean? I text back, though I know perfectly well.

It means don’t show up at their compound with recording equipment and that look you get when you’re about to bulldoze someone’s boundaries. Build trust first. For once in your life, take the slow approach.

She’s right, as usual. The slow approach. Not exactly my specialty.

Fine. I’ll be the picture of restraint and professionalism.

Sure you will. Just like at the Waverly Hills Sanitorium fiasco, where you broke into the body chute at 3 AM.

That was different. The groundskeeper said we could explore “anywhere on the property.”

The AUTHORIZED parts of the property! Just… promise me you won’t do anything impulsive this time?

I stare at her message, fingers hovering over the screen. Impulsive is practically my middle name. Every significant breakthrough we’ve had on the podcast came from me following my instincts, pushing just a little further than the average investigator would dare.

But Megan’s right. This requires a different approach. Lucius isn’t some local ghost story or tourist-trap haunted house. He’s a living, breathing connection to ancient death rituals—and possibly the only person who might understand what I experienced on the other side.

I promise I’ll be careful, I text finally. Not quite what she asked, but as close as I can honestly get.

The digital clock flips to 4:13 AM as I open my laptop again. I start drafting an outline for what could be the most important episode of my career:

“Death. Humanity’s constant companion since the beginning of time.

Every culture, every civilization has created rituals to honor, placate, or understand it.

But what if some of us have glimpsed beyond the veil that separates life from what comes after?

And what could we learn from someone who once served as death’s official priest in ancient Rome? ”

There’s a fine line between respectful investigation and exploitation. Between genuine connection and using someone for content. I’ve always prided myself on staying on the right side of that line, but this… this feels different. More personal somehow.

The memory of his pale eyes studying me sends another shiver down my spine. He saw through me, past the carefully constructed aesthetic, past the professional podcast persona, straight to the frightened seventeen-year-old who woke up in a hospital bed with memories no one believed.

For the first time in years, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. And strangely, inexplicably drawn to someone who seems to understand the weight of carrying death’s touch among the living.

Dawn leaks through the crappy motel curtains, pale and indifferent. I close the laptop, but the outline keeps unraveling in my head—threads of history, ritual, death, and the man who might be the key to all of it.

Lucius isn’t just a story. He’s a survivor of blood and empire, a priest of the underworld trapped in a time that no longer believes in gods or ghosts.

And yet… when he looked at me, something ancient looked back. Not pity. Not curiosity. Recognition.

I’ve interviewed morticians, mediums, death doulas, and skeptics. But none of them made me feel seen like that. Not the way he did.

This isn’t just research. Not anymore.

I don’t need better equipment.

I need to earn his trust.